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Poem by Thomas Hardy


On a Midsummer Eve


I idly cut a parsley stalk,
And blew therein towards the moon;
I had not thought what ghosts would walk
With shivering footsteps to my tune.

I went, and knelt, and scooped my hand
As if to drink, into the brook,
And a faint figure seemed to stand
Above me, with the bygone look.

I lipped rough rhymes of chance, not choice,
I thought not what my words might be;
There came into my ear a voice
That turned a tenderer verse for me.



Thomas Hardy


Thomas Hardy's other poems:
  1. Genitrix Laesa
  2. V.R. 1819–1901
  3. Over the Coffin
  4. Nothing Matters Much
  5. The Bad Example


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